by Monica Nolan
“Not even the indoor kind?”
The unearthly radiance in the sky seemed to magnetize them, drawing them together. Their lips fused, as if welded together by a superheated energy source. Their bodies moved as one unit, like negative and positive electrons paired in a sensual sub-atomic dance. Velma’s tongue touched hers, setting off a shower of glowing particles inside Maxie’s head. The younger girl gathered a fistful of green chiffon skirt in her hand, exposing the shapely legs that had first caught her eye.
“Maxie,” breathed Velma huskily, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Of course it is.” Maxie ignored the pro forma protest. But the hand that had been caressing her breast, exciting her to the point of pain, was now pushing her gently away.
“What gives?” Maxie gasped, as Velma detached herself and lit a cigarette. It was as if the blond businesswoman had stopped a nuclear reaction at the moment of fusion.
“It would be rude,” Velma said regretfully. “A breach of etiquette to engage in an activity my hostess disapproves of while enjoying her hospitality!”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her!” Maxie begged. She couldn’t believe that a woman who radiated wantonness the way Velma had would put some fuddy-duddy social stricture before satisfaction.
“And besides.” Velma glanced at her watch as if calculating how much time she had until her next appointment. “I’d like to offer you a job at Amalgamated Enterprises, in the new dry-cleaner division. We have a policy against office romances.”
As another burst of light lit the air, all Maxie could think was that her private fireworks had fizzled. Her trysts had often been interrupted or curtailed by circumstances out of her control, but Maxie Mainwaring had never been out-and-out rejected! “Well, thanks for the offer,” she lashed out in rage and hurt. “But I’d sooner work at Sudso!”
She thrashed her way back through the woods, not caring whether Velma followed. In fact, she made a point of ignoring the Amalgamated executive the rest of the evening, flirting with Nancy Nyhus, who reminded her a little of Lon, if Lon were to wear a dress. Mumsy retired early, with a bad headache, leaving the coast clear—and increasing Maxie’s fury at Velma’s excessive caution. But even opening Nancy’s eyes to her true nature was an insufficient sop to the ex-deb’s injured pride.
On the bus the next day, Maxie decided sourly that reading Stella’s book had been the only productive part of the weekend. Listlessly she unfolded the Loon Lake Gazette, preparing to shade her face while she snoozed. Then she spotted the picture on the front page, and suddenly she was wide awake.
VACATIONING MAN DROWNED ran the headline. Below was a photograph of a lantern-jawed man with a prominent Adam’s apple. It was the police officer Maxie had last seen in the alley behind Francine’s, taking a payoff from Lon.
Chapter 21
Raid!
By the time the bus pulled into Central Station, Maxie had practically memorized the story. Franklin “Frankie” Schuster had been discovered floating next to his own pier a few hours after the end of the fireworks display. “The tragedy began,” the Loon Lake Gazette reported, “when Mrs. Schuster noticed the bratwurst smoking on the grill outside their summer cottage. Knowing her husband would never leave the bratwurst to burn, she became alarmed.”
A half-drunk bottle of beer on the pier led to an investigation of the lake. Schuster had “apparently slipped off the pier, perhaps distracted by the fireworks.” He was “past help” when he was pulled out—newspaper-speak for deader than a doornail, thought Maxie. But the part she read and reread was Mrs. Schuster’s assertion that “Frankie” was a strong swimmer, who would never drown in the shallows of Loon Lake. The sheriff’s office blamed an underwater piling for the “unfortunate accident,” pointing to the “contusion on Schuster’s head.”
The article ended with a brief note that Mr. Schuster was a police officer in Bay City and that he and his wife had been coming to Loon Lake for twelve years, and had just recently purchased their own lakeside cottage.
An accident, they called it, and yet Maxie couldn’t help suspecting something more sinister. Maybe it was knowing the all-American swimmer had probably paid for his cottage with bribes and kickbacks; maybe it was the odd proximity to the Mainwaring cabin—half an hour by road, but only a five-minute paddle. Maybe it was the way the dots connected: the cop to Lon, Lon to the pawnshop, the pawnshop to Mabel Mainwaring. And what about the previous evening—was a headache the real reason Mumsy had retired so early?
Maxie rubbed her forehead in an effort to clear her thoughts. She supposed the average daughter wouldn’t leap to the conclusion that her mother had committed murder. But Mumsy wasn’t your standard-issue mother! Maxie could easily picture her in one of the Mainwaring canoes, floating silently up to the Schuster pier and bludgeoning the policeman with a paddle.
Yet what possible motive could the Mainwaring matriarch have for such a deed? Maybe Maxie was making a mountain out of a molehill.
On the other hand, the girls at Francine’s had plenty of reason to resent Officer Schuster! Had one of them had the opportunity this past weekend to vent her anger?
Maxie had a date with Pam for dinner, but rather than going straight home to change, she yielded to an impulse to stop by Francine’s and see if news of the crooked cop’s death had reached the familiar haunt. Besides, she still wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Pamela about her girlfriend’s past pecadillos.
To Maxie’s surprise, Dolly and Stella were at a table, having a beer. The latter greeted her gaily. “How was the glorious Fourth? I see you got some sun!”
I got more than that, Maxie thought, but all she said was, “It was swell.”
Dolly signaled the waitress as Maxie set down her overnight case and hitched up a chair. “Stel and I are celebrating,” she told Maxie. “We finished the last of the photos.”
“Now all we have to do is make up the sample,” Stella added.
“And then sell it,” Dolly finished.
“I wonder how long it will be before we see any money,” Stella sighed.
“If you want money, sell your novel,” Maxie told the amateur photographer as she scanned the bar. “With a few changes you could probably make a pile.”
Stella looked positively starstruck. “You really think it’s good?”
“It kept me turning the pages. If you like”—she warmed up, forgetting the reason for her visit to Francine’s—“I’ll call Mamie and get possible publishers from her. She’s been writing under a pseudonym for years.” It was the perfect excuse to make up with her old mentor.
“I can make any changes you think it needs!” said the aspiring author. “Could you, maybe, go over the manuscript with me, Maxie?”
“If only I was talented as you two,” mourned Dolly. “As an actress, I’m yesterday’s hash.”
Maxie was about to say something to reassure her old friend when she felt a funny prickling on the back of her neck, as if she were being watched. The air stirred, and suddenly a low voice murmured in her ear, “Better scram, college girl. Betty Blue is on her way.”
“Lon!” Maxie whirled around. It was a shock to see Lon at Francine’s, but there she was, in a T-shirt and jeans, looking around uneasily—and she didn’t look like she was joking. Maxie turned to her friends, who were eyeing the beautiful butch with interest. “Girls, we’ve got to go—the police are on their way!”
“Let’s warn the others!” said Dolly. Suiting action to word, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted in a voice that carried to the corners of the room, “Cheese it! The cops!”
Francine’s clients were always on the qui vive, and the alarm was instantaneous. The girls leaped up like overbred racehorses at the sound of the starter’s gun. There was a clatter of chairs being shoved back, the smash of glasses tumbling from tables, a melee worse than a rugby scrum as more and more women joined the fray, clogging the narrow flight of steps in their attempt to escape.
“Y
our friend started a stampede.” Lon pulled Maxie away from the frenzy. Her touch started off a potent reaction in Maxie, like the fizzing of bicarbonate in a glass of water.
“We’ll take the back way.” Maxie picked up her overnight case, and she and Lon went behind the bar, through a tiny kitchen, and up a short flight of wooden steps to the alley. In the sudden quiet, they looked at each other.
It was hot and still, and yet Maxie shivered in her uncrushable seersucker traveling dress. This was where she’d seen Lon pay the dead policeman to harass Francine’s. Yet tonight the laconic girl had warned Maxie of the raid. Was she switching sides or did she have some darker purpose?
“You were away this weekend.” Lon broke the silence.
“Did you stop by for a visit?” Maxie asked. But she wasn’t in the mood for their usual exchange of caustic quips. She took out the Loon Lake Gazette.
“News about a friend of yours.” She handed Lon the story, watching the other girl’s reaction closely. There was no mistaking the puzzlement, followed by shock, and then speculation. Maxie wished she could read Lon’s thoughts.
“You need to be careful.” Lon was dead serious. “You and your sorority sisters.”
“How can I convince you I’ve never been to college?” Maxie burst out in exasperation. “Careful of what? Of who?”
“Of this.” Lon handed the picture of the drowned man back to Maxie. “Of everyone.”
“Can’t you be a tiny bit more specific?” the ex-deb begged. “Who’s the new power in town who’s upsetting the applecart? You don’t have to name names, just give me a hint. Maybe some initials. Does the last name end in ‘son’?”
“You’re not even close,” said Lon. “And yet you’re so much closer than you realize.”
And with that, the enigmatic butch melted away into the night.
Not this time! thought Maxie, following her.
Chapter 22
Tail Job
Lon had only melted as far as 47th. She was walking down the street with an easy athletic stride. At the corner of 47th and Osage she flagged a cab. Maxie sprinted to the corner and waved frantically. Luck was with her. An empty cab swerved to the curb.
“Follow that cab!” she said, jumping in. It felt nice to be cabbing again—to feel the familiar jerk as the taxi took off, to slide on the worn seat as the cab swerved wildly from lane to lane. Bus drivers are so staid in comparison, she thought.
As the cab rocketed toward a red light, Maxie opened her overnight case, thanking her lucky stars she hadn’t taken the time to unpack. Off came the seersucker shirtwaist with its too visible red and white stripes, and on went a pair of jeans and a navy sweater. Glancing out the window as she changed her flats for canvas boat shoes, she saw the docks flying by. Ahead were the neon lights of Pingst Street.
So we’re going to the Knock Knock, Maxie thought. But Lon’s cab stopped short of the Lounge, pulling up in front of an establishment called the Café de Paris. Maxie hesitated when Lon got out and strolled inside. Lon’s cab stayed put, engine running. Maxie glanced at the meter uneasily and sat tight.
Five minutes later, Lon was out again, walking down the street while the cab trailed her. Making collections, like a newspaper boy with a route, Maxie decided, as Lon went into the Gilded Cage.
“You gonna sit here all night, lady?” the cab driver grumbled.
“Maybe.” Maxie threw him a fin to keep him quiet. Thank heavens she’d cashed her paycheck before leaving for Loon Lake. She dug out her budget book from her purse, and noted the expenditure.
“Your fellow two-timing you?” asked the driver, his curiosity mixed with sympathy.
“That’s right,” said Maxie. It still surprised her how easily Lon passed. To Maxie Lon’s distinctively female appeal was only too apparent. Were a pair of pants and a short haircut all it took to fool the “normal” members of society? Are they normal, or just slow-witted? the jaded girl couldn’t help wondering.
Lon was coming out of the Gilded Cage, only to be buttonholed by a fellow in a slick suit, who kept her there, jabbering away. Even the underworld had its Ted Driscolls, Maxie supposed. Finally she was free and headed for the Knock Knock, her pace quickening.
“Pull up, across the street there,” Maxie instructed. Lon’s stay inside the seedy bar was longer than her other two stops. Enough time to drink a beer and kiss a few girls, Maxie thought jealously. When Lon finally emerged, she was smoking a cigarette, and paused to take a last drag before leaning down to toss something inside the cab window. “I think I’ll walk.” Maxie could hear the words plainly from across the street. The cab pulled away, and Lon strolled in the direction of Little Bohemia.
Maxie looked at the amount on the meter and ground her teeth. “Here you go.” She handed her driver her last ten and tipped him from the change.
“Sometimes it’s better not to know,” he said as he pulled away.
Maxie followed Lon, staying across the street and a little behind the other girl. The sweater was too warm for the summer night, but in it Maxie disappeared into the darkness. She worried about her overnight case, an expensive leather affair in powder blue. Darting into a corner grocery store, she wangled a paper bag from the puzzled proprietor and placed the overnight case inside. Perfect. Now she was just another beatnik girl, going home with her groceries.
Maxie hurried to catch up with the glimmer that was Lon’s white T-shirt a block and a half ahead now. Dodging into doorways, letting Lon’s lead lengthen or closing the gap, the ex-deb followed her quarry to a broken-down residential hotel. Lon pushed open the lobby door. Above, a vertical neon sign read SENECA HOTEL. The A flickered erratically.
Maxie watched from across the street and was rewarded when a light on the eighth floor winked on a few minutes later.
A hollow feeling reminded the girl detective that lunch had been a long time ago. She spotted a dinette a few doors down. Taking a table by the window, she ordered eggs and coffee. The little square of light on the eighth floor glowed like a beacon.
Lon was too tight-lipped to tell her who was running the show. But Maxie had a hunch the beautiful butch might lead her to the major players in this underworld shakeup, if Maxie just stayed on her tail. And hadn’t Miss Watkins said to follow her hunches?
This was no longer just about a story, Maxie thought, putting eggs in her mouth as she watched the window. This was about the girls at Francine’s and the kids at the Summer Recreational Program. It was maybe about Mumsy.
Pushing her plate away, Maxie lit a cigarette, keeping her eyes pinned on Lon’s window. Maybe she should become a private dick. Or was the proper term “private jane”? Maxie Mainwaring, Private Investigator. The magazine assistant tried out the title mentally.
“More coffee?”
“Please.” Maxie flashed the waitress a smile and eyed her appreciatively as she walked away, shapely legs showing beneath the wrinkled white uniform. A good-looking girl for a dumpy dinette. When she looked back at the hotel, she couldn’t remember which window was Lon’s. Darn! She’d just keep an eye on the entrance.
She glanced at the waitress, now leaning back against a refrigerated case filled with rotating slices of cream pie. In the glow of the display case, she reminded Maxie a little of Elaine. She had the same dark hair and fragile, baby-deer quality. Maxie had told her mother Elaine wasn’t her type, but was that true? What was her type?
Maxie peered through the smudged glass of the dinette window. A figure had emerged from the Seneca’s entrance. But the shapeless person shuffling along was too short to be Lon.
She went for rangy redheads and soignée blondes, girls who were buxom and girls who were boyish. Maxie went for all kinds of girls.
Now, Pamela had a definite type. She liked petite brunettes with spunk, like Maxie, Lois—and now June. Her obvious yen for Lois had made Maxie jealous when the budding secretary had arrived at the Arms all those years ago. But Lois had gone for no-nonsense Netta, and Maxie’s momentary anxiety had brought h
er and Pam closer together.
Would she and Pamela reach a better understanding after Maxie told her girlfriend she knew about June?
The ex-deb’s mind wandered, as she stared at the entrance to the old hotel, chin on hand. What made a girl limit herself to a hair color or a personality type? What made her limit herself to one girl? For years, Maxie had thought Pamela was it, even as she flirted outrageously with so many others. But if she truly loved Pamela, why had she kissed Elaine and pursued Velma? How could she be attracted to both bad-girl Lon and the hardworking sportswear buyer?
The dinette was closing. Maxie gathered her goods, and, with a last glance at the pretty waitress, moved to an apartment doorway a few doors down. She danced from foot to foot, jittery from coffee and wishing she had more cigarettes. She stared up at the Seneca Hotel, wondering what Lon was doing, and if she was alone.
She’d figured the coffee would keep her up for a week, but a few hours later she was fighting drowsiness. The sweater had stopped being hot—Maxie felt almost cozy, curled in her doorway. Between two and four A.M. there was a spurt of activity that kept her alert—tenants stumbled up the steps and wove through the lobby; guests departed. Then the streets were still again—more still and silent than Maxie had ever seen Bay City.
She yawned, and struggled to keep her drooping eyes open. I’ll think of something stimulating. Kissing Velma on the point. Kissing Elaine in the powder room. Kissing Lon in the bar near the pawnshop. Lying naked with Pamela in her deliciously cool air-conditioned bedroom. Pamela certainly had an advantage over the rest that way, Maxie thought sleepily. Is she the one, or is it her air-conditioning?
Dawn found Maxie dozing in her doorway. The slam of a car door jerked her awake from a dream of Stella photographing a roomful of girls, all lined up against the wall, their heads turned in profile as if for a mugshot. Maxie wiped a dribble of drool from the corner of her mouth and climbed stiffly to her feet, hoping the dinette had reopened.
